EGO BOOST LEADS TO ADOPTION

I'm not sure how he got it, but Dave has been referring to me as "Lady M." Seems rather sophisticated and diva-ish, like a (rather flattering ) mix of Lady Day and the Divine Miss M, herself, who, by the way said one of my favorite movie quotes of all time: "But enough about me, let's talk about you... what do YOU think of me?" in the super sappy Beaches.

Since this (*possibly* undeserved) nickname celebrates my inner-Diva so well, I think I shall adopt it. Hence forth you shall receive all writings from "Lady M."

Thank you, thank you. Now where has that towel boy run off to? Good help is so hard to find these days! Dang, my fellow TUIB divas would be so proud. Raquel, this is for you.

Of Pain

Pain levels involving the root canal process on a scale of 1-10, 1 being "Pain? What pain?" and 10 being "I think my tooth's water just broke."

Eating on tooth that needs root canal: 8

Worrying about said root canal: 7

Going through said root canal: 5 (because the numb face and the process of getting that way kind of stink, but I did almost fall asleep in the chair-- nope, no sleeping gas, I'm just that tired)

Getting bill for said root canal: 8,000,000

Next project: resuscitate my wallet from its heart attack.

Erin Go Braugh! um, again.

What's that you say? St. Patrick's Day has come and gone? Well, I know that, silly. This time my greeting comes rather as a form of announcement than as salutation. What announcement have I, you ask? Well, I am going to Ireland. I'm going for a week at the end of May with a group from my church. This means I will have to raise the funds to support my time there with a youth ministry in Northern Ireland-- a British claimed area on Irish soil filled with turmoil between the two people groups. Yes, family, don't freak out, I'll be ok.

On St. Patty's Day I recounted that it has been ten years since the last time I was blessed enough to go to Ireland. I took that trip for granted, but may my eyes be gouged should I do the same this time around. As in the last trip, I will also have a short amount of time in London (1 day) and hope to see the things that I missed out on the first go round as well as a quick snap shot of that city life. *note to self-- bring empty suitcase to London in order to fill with stuff to bring back* :-)

To be honest, I look to this trip with excitement and trepidation. You see, this promises to be a challenging trip, exposing many of my faults, my caveats and all sorts of idols in my life that I am trying to avoid acknowledging. Everyone I've talked to who has gone to help this ministry in the past has nothing but great things to say about how it changed their lives. This scares me because I don't know if I'm ready to be thrown into refining fires. At the same time, however, I'm not sure which scares me most: the thought of being tested and changed, or the thought of nothing spectacular happening at all. I suppose this means I desire that challenge and change, after all.

Painting Everything in Black and Blue

I'm a strange kid. I get the weirdest bruises. Today I have one on the top of my hand. Not the top of the hand that I completely schwacked directly into someone's sideview mirror. Oh, no, that hand remained unmarred. The other hand. The one I don't remember doing anything to, ever.

Last week I was trying on skirts for the next day and turned around to find an amazingly large bruise on the back of my leg above my knee. Ok, longer skirt it is. It was quite purple. And blue. And did I mention it was large? How did it get there? How am I supposed to know?

And the bruise I got on my thigh above my left knee. Don't really recall how that got there either.

The funny thing is that I can run into something and expect a bruise, but never get one. Then one day I'll look down at the inside of my forearm (how the heck do you get a bruise on the inside of your forearm??? happens to me all the time) and there's a little brownish/purple dot to call my own.

I think they're on a delayed reaction. So, if I get a bruise right away, then I know it must be really bad. Otherwise, they don't appear for days (a week?) later and by then I've forgotten the cause.

Case in point: My cousin and I are the same age. For our high school graduation presents, we got to go out to visit my aunt in California. The week before, at the end of my cousin's graduation, I tried to descend the bleachers instead of the nice, tractioned stairs and ended up, well, *ahem* losing my footing, if you will. Slippery little things they were. There I was trying to be all cool in my long (thankfully), flowing dress and heals, and I slipped on one of the risers half way up and rolled sideways down the rest, stopping only at the one right before the gym floor-- where an elderly gentleman so graciously helped me to my feet while the hot upperclassmen gawked laughed above me. (note: this also qualifies as one of my most embarrassing moments)

The point of the story is this: my shins didn't bruise. They hurt like heck, though not as much as my fragile 18-year-old ego, but they didn't bruise. Or rather, they didn't bruise until a week later when, after hours of rollerblading on the Long Beach Boardwalk, I traded my blades back for my flip flops, only to find that the pressure from the blade-boot had brought out the bruises in a wonderfully ribbed gym-sock-pattern all across my shins. (note: this may have qualified for its own embarrassing moment, however, it is clearly acknowledgeable as an extension of the first)

I mean, seriously. What's with the bruises? I think my roommates are coming in and beating me up in my sleep-- well, if I was able to fall asleep properly, that is. No wonder I have nightmares!

Losing Silence, Losing Steam

In this world, I have favorites. It's true. I try to be unbiased, but hey, I'm human. My favorite food genre is Tex/Mex. My favorite movies are White Christmas and Tommy Boy (both for sentimental reasons, oddly enough). My favorite treat would have to be frosted sugar cookies, followed closely by anisette toast. I don't particularly have a favorite color-- they all look good on me. Oh, and my favorite personal attribute is my humility. heh.

The oddest of my favorites, however, would have to be doors. I have favorite doors in the world. I may, however, have to knock that down to just one favorite door for now seeing as how my 2nd and 3rd favorite doors have ceased providing the service for which they were so adored! There are two doors between my living room and my bedroom. These, until recently, have been two of my very favorite doors in the world. I could close them and seal myself into complete oblivion of apartment goings on and/or catterwalling.

Alas, the seal has broken, my domain has become, well, noisy. Noisi-er, I should say. Now, not only can I hear my neighbor's phone across the hall, the dog running about upstairs and anyone *ahem* "using the facilities" adjacent to my room or running water of any sort in the bathrooms above or below, now I can all of a sudden hear every little peep from my living room-- to which I had before been blessed to witness sheer silence.

I think the apartment is revolting. Perhaps it is waiting for May 31st with as much anticipation as I am. For then, we shall be free of each other-- forever! (insert maniacal laugh)

I just want peace and quiet. Oh-- and a little machine to follow me everywhere and soothe me with the sounds of tranquil ocean breezes.

So, I haven't written much it seems. I'm feeling a bit slow of late. A bit lethargic. A bit dreamy, yet not whimsical-dreamy, more why-am-I-awake-dreamy. However, I appear to be most stressed out while sleeping. Go figure.

I've begun looking into homeopathic wellness options, in an effort to spunk up my over-all lack-lusterness. Vitamins here, vitamins there. Homeopathic remedies are nice because they're more friendly to my messed up internal system. We'll see how they work. AND-- if they don't, the place I bought them from will give me a refund. Let's see Walgreens do that.

Any way. I would love to type more, but I think I might have to just curl up in a cocoon for a little while. Then perhaps I shall emerge a vibrant monarch ready for spring.

peace.

The South Is Seriously Oppressing Me!

Ok, perhaps it's just the two stores I tried in my semi-ghetto neighborhood, but I could not find any fun St. Patrick's Day paraphenalia! I find this a serious enough atrocity to blame the *entire* South. Yep. And I bet none of those meat-n-three places will see the necessity for corned beef and hash, either. Stinkin' ghetto south. It's about more than green beer people!!!!! It's about blinking "Kiss Me I'm Irish" buttons* and green bowler hats, too! Not to mention pots of little gold-foiled chocolate coins at the end of shimmering rainbows! And shamrock or better yet, four leaf clover, stickers to brand one's cheek and shout to the world, "YES!! I'm IRISH! I love potatoes and little green men! I may call myself or my friends/relatives 'Micks,' but if you do it, BEWARE my flailing fists!" If it weren't so cold there, I'd go to Boston. Or South Bend, Indiana-- but it's cold there, too. As a matter of fact, it's gotten colder here, too! It's all a conspiracy!!!!!


*As a disclaimer, I actually had the opportunity to buy a Kiss Me I'm Irish button at a going out of business sale a few months ago and refrained for fear people might actually take it seriously. I only throw elbows when necessary so I'd rather not extend an invitation that would lead to such violence.

Blarney

I can't believe it, but a decade ago (A FREAKING DECADE!!!!) today I was in Dublin, Ireland marching in THE St. Patrick's Day Parade. For Cheerleading. Yep. Of course, they made us chant "U.S.A." while we walked-- stupid arrogant Americans, but it was neat all the same. I particularly loved it when the Irish kids started chanting "I-re-land" on the sidelines. What I would have given to join in. = ) As much as they jeered at our chant, however, they didn't seem to mind our short pleated cheerleading skirts...

Ah, Ireland. I hope to return someday. Especially since then I was 15 and didn't realize the significance of, well, anything. We stayed in a castle and ate a LOT of potato leek soup (which I now happen to enjoy). I think it's also the only place where the same guys hit on my mom AND me in the same go. Not, however, the only place I've seen drunken teenagers falling along the side of the road. hmm. Ah, the carefree...

May the road rise up to meet you and the wind always be at your back.
CHEERS!

A) Will's Going Down

B) For the record, it's actually rather nice here in Chicago. Of course, I am indoors and there is sunlight streaming through the windows. My friend did, however, tell me I looked ridiculous all bundled up after picking me up from the airport-- um, come on-- it was 17-freaking-degrees!

C) SJD-- I would love to see you this weekend and am going to try to go to Blackhawk Sunday a.m. Call Yooms to get my #. I tried to email you-- didn't work. Silly other-people's-computers.

D) Ok, this is muy importante. Joss Stone, The Soul Sessions put out by S-Curve Records. She's a (surprisingly white) throw-back to Aretha's soulful tunes of the seventies with a wonderful timeless feel. She even has an Aretha cover, All The King's Horses. She's got more funk than Nora Jones with just as much soul. It's a good mix of get-your-groove-going-funk and chill-yo-self-into-a-puddle-of-vibrato-driven-gelatinous-cool-ballads (ala the Romeo and Juliet Soundtrack's Kissing You). This girl proves that soul isn't bound by race-- because, seriously, what is "race" anyway. Or something. yeah.

Brrrrrr

Yeah, that's the noise I'll be making A LOT this weekend up in Chicago and around my alma mater the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Yep, might just look like this. Though I would prefer it to look like any of these.

Laughing not allowed.

Besides, I'll be with some of the most awesome people ever-- well, aside from all of you, of course. Have a great weekend!

Do you ever feel yourself slipping away? Just kind of rolling away from your true self, your own sense of self like the tide ebbing into the sea? It comes back again, always comes back. It's a cycle, you see. A cycle of comings and goings. A cycle of highs and lows; of ins and outs. Even though I feel somewhat on my way out right now, I know that I'll come back in to flood the banks once more to stir the pebbled beach, to massage and wear at every single grain, until each granule weathers to a smooth, crystalline bead and the shore awaits my coming. I will set upon it with grandeur and with grace, with presence and with ease. Eventually it will form to me and resist its shifting ways. The wind will no long control its to and fro, for that will be my kingdom. That will be my haven, beaten and caressed into peacefully concaved submission, clinging to my shape, moving at my will. Yes, sometimes I feel I am this tide, this ebb and flow of power and glory.

And yet, sometimes, I am the shore.

Absent

I will be absent today as the entire day will be spent checking Dooce's comments. I'm thinking y'all might just be doing the same thing.

Born Deaf

That's right. I was born deaf: 80% in one ear and 50% in the other. I never knew this until after Christmas when my mom and I were driving down to TN from WI. I had tubes in my ears when I was younger, but I always thought it was due to an imbalance problem (which I also had) and had no idea it was to rectify my hearing inability! My mom said she didn't figure it out until I was around three years old. I was in the bathtub and my mom would talk to me. If I was looking at her, I'd respond, but if I was looking away or she covered her mouth with her hand, I had no idea what was going on. Apparently I had gotten pretty good at reading lips (a talent I would pay for now).

Thinking of my life and my love of music, it's somewhat baffling to think of what my life would have been without being able to hear. It's like that "would you rather" game. Would you rather be born deaf or blind? Well, apparently my body would have rather been born deaf-- although it is definitely allowing my eyesight to degenerate over time.

Since I've gained knowledge of this news, I have been taking into account various situations in which I can use it to my advantage. What was that you said? I'm sorry, I was born deaf, have a hard time hearing sometimes... In truth, I do have a hard time hearing sometimes. Rather than asking people to repeat themselves over and over, I generally try to just go with the flow and guess what they said. Note: this hardly ever actually works. That's right. I pretty much end up sucking it up and admitting that I couldn't hear them because I've made a fool out of myself. Ah well. To each his own. To me-- the mule award of the day. What? I'm sorry, I can't hear too well-- born deaf, you know.

Legally Binding?

Growing up I would make contracts with my dad. I would write them out with conditions and rewards and we would both sign them. For example, we signed contracts stipulating payment methods for grades on report cards: $1 for every A, $.50 for every B, nothing for Cs, -$.50 for every D and -$1 for every F. Granted, the last three grades were never actually applicable, but I had to make it seem fair and insinuate incentive. Going into Junior High (grades 7-9) my dad and I signed a contract that if I got straight A report cards throughout all three years he would get me a car (and people wondered why anything less than an A test grade freaked me out). I got my car. I think we also made contracts about chores and vacations. I even made a contract with my aunt stating something about the two of us going abroad after I turned 18 or something. That, sadly, will forever be a contract unmet.

I returned from lunch today to find this voice mail from my mom:

"Hi honey, I just wanted to call and tell you know what a little twit you are. I was just going through my junk drawer and looking at some of your old school records in it and in there I found all the little contracts you made with your dad for grades and one of them said If I *father's name* am mean to my daughter, Melissa *last name*, I owe her an extra dollar. *laughing* And you both signed it. I love you, I'll talk to you later, buh bye."

Hey-- my momma didn't raise no fool. Maybe I was supposed to be a contractual lawyer, eh?

Are We Surprised?


Lord of the Rings!


What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla

D Day

Off to get my root canal. ok, so I'm actually not that worried, I just hate it when they stick the needle into my gums. *shudder* Not to mention the fact that I'll have a pretty numb mouth for a few hours afterward. woo hoo.

When it's over, however I will be able to chew on both sides of my mouth, at last!

2000 zero, zero party over, oops out of time

Would someone like to bank roll my way to a Prince concert? I'll let you come with-- you know, if you get our tickets. *batting eyelashes*

Rainy Day Monday

Not getting me down. For some reason I don't mind the rain today. It actually makes me smile and feel all warm and giddy inside like being in love--or maybe like being befuddled by someone new. Sometimes it's nice to lose the horizon-- let the pavement and sky bleed into one. I think today's rain is just different. It's March rain.

Unlike January or February rain which plink into icy pools, March rain starts to feed the earth in preparation for Spring. Yesterday's temps reached sixty-something. The sun shone radiantly and my step instructor bored me so I hit the road for a walk/run. (aside: my knees hate me, a lot)

I saw robins. Growing up I learned that robin-red-breasts were a sure sign of Spring. However, here in Nashville I've been seeing droves of robins since January. I guess this is where they hang until Spring in Wisconsin--which can be as late as the end of April or middle of May (it can even plunge to 40s or 50s in June evenings). Not here though. Here it's practically Spring in February. My face even got a sunburn on New Year's Eve. Yesterday, however, yesterday I saw a true sign of the nearing springtime. You see, the trees are different. Not incredibly noticeable. Not pains-takingly obvious. It's a subtle difference, one you have to get up close to note. On branch ends and interspersed along the shafts, in the shade of bark, velvety soft buds have begun their worldly emergence.

You can't have grass and flowers and healthy, blossoming spring plant life without rain. Today's rain should give them some needed nourishment. That makes me happy. And giddy. And somewhat amorous, even amidst the grey.

News

This just in (ok, it was in yesterday, but I didn't really feel like posting it right then):

Dear Ms. Reinke:

This communication is in response to your application for admission to graduate study in the Comparative Literature program at Vanderbilt University. Based on the recommendation of its faculty, we regret to inform you that Vanderbilt is unable to offer you admission to this program. If you have applied to more than one Vanderbilt program, you will receive a separate communication regarding your application to each program.


We experienced a significant increase in the number of graduate applications this year; thus, we are faced with the unpleasant task of turning down a number of well-qualified applicants.


We wish you well in your endeavors. Again, thank you for your interest in Vanderbilt University.

Ok, before you rush to the comments to console me--don't worry about it. It's a good thing. I don't think the program and I were meant for each other anyway and was probably going to turn down an offer, if extended. Not that it doesn't smart to have someone send you this kind of letter (especially when you've written them yourself and you *totally* know the thought process behind writing them) but perhaps my ego needed a little deflation. So, no "I'm sorry"s, k? If you do, I'll ban your IP :-)

In Other News

I have decided from now on when people ask me what I do for a living I'm simply going to reply: "I collate." That's it. Nothing else. That's really all they need to know, anyway. That's the gist.

Mirror, Mirror in the Sand

While walking along the shore, I happened upon a sand castle. It seemed to have been made with loving care. Intricate designs had been scalloped into its surface. Only the best sand had been used to make this castle. Little windows were carved in a couple of centimeters so that one might pretend to see inside. I planted myself a few feet away from the sandy manor, rolled onto my tail bone, wrapped my arms around my drawn-in legs, rested my chin on my knees and imagined sweeping ceilings lined with crown molding, marble pillars and intimate trinkets lining handmade shelves and cases. I dreamt of enormous ballrooms with brilliant chandeliers and private quarters with crackling fireplaces and cozy down comforters. Perhaps an octagonally-shaped library -- and one of those attached rolling ladders, the kind that every kid wants to play on and seldom can without getting in trouble, on each wall book-lined from floor-to-vaulted-ceiling. Except, perhaps, for the two walls made of three-quarters window kissing a cushioned cubby seat where one could curl up with whichever fruit of literature was picked from the surrounding grove of paper, glue and weathered bindings.

I couldn't image anyone leaving this beautiful place empty, alone, deserted. I wanted to crawl inside and find my own candle-lit nook or cranny where I could fall asleep with shadows dancing along the walls to the surrounding ocean's symphony. I got lost in that sand castle- roaming its endless halls and its varying floors, exploring its secret passages. I'd lost complete track of time and space, drifting into my own figmented Elysian Fields, not even noticing the tide rolling over my ankles, splashing my hips. Not until, that is, it broke violently through my castle walls, threw down its turrets and revealed the muddy muck inside. Startled, I shot up, my sopping clothes clinging uncomfortably, coolly now, to my clammy flesh. The tide had changed with the setting sun and with it, tumbled my fantasia. Distraught by my washed-up dream, I trudged on home.

The next day, however, I returned to that place. Instead of finding the expected ruins of my dreams, I found a child rebuilding that castle. I realized that it was not as murky as I thought, that although it was not made of marble and sonnets, it was constructed from countless, unique granules like any other sand sculpture. Yet, even knowing it was the same as others made it special, made it different. Knowing the simplicity of the design and the complexity of the grains clinging almost inexplicably together to create a shape of beauty. A shape which inspires fantasy and yet cries out for reality, for truth. A fortress, vulnerable to the phases of the moon, a hearty wind or the malice of the world-- yet rebuilt with love and care after every fall.

I think I treat people too much like fantasy sand castles-- I build them up in my mind from a safe distance and too often count them revoltingly lost with the cascading tide of revelation. Not often enough do I return for the chance to embrace the wonder and complexity in the simple truth of reality.

Random Thoughts on Some Music

Maybe it's his dragging rock-n-roll style, but every time I listen to Pete Yorn's Come Back Home I swear I can hear him lisping

Aside from Disney, only Peter Gabriel could write a song about kissing frogs

I miss The Normals, period.

Ok, I lied, I have to say more about The Normals. I've been listening to a couple of their discs (again) recently. They are just so freaking talented both musically and lyrically. No, seriously. So to catch newer glimpses of them, check out Andrew Osenga's latest work Souvenirs and Postcards. I promise he didn't pay me (or even ask) for this advertisement, I've just been lately reacquainted with how great this music is.

Last night I lay relaxing in a lavender bubble bath while Shawn Colvin's Few Small Repairs drifted in from my bedroom and thought how wonderful it is that she can have such diversity in her musical style. I want to be brooding like "Sunny Came Home" or "Trouble" and then go into a song like "Never Saw Blue" or "Witchita Skyline" with their whimsically enchanting melodies and metaphors.

Then I wondered if I should put in Travis to listen to while falling asleep. But I decided to stick with Shawn.

I'm pretty bummed I missed the Buddy and Julie Miller show this past weekend with Matthew Ryan opening, but I'll get over it-- eventually

If you want to get a lot of hits to your blog, quote some Melissa Etheridge lyrics and be sure to give her credit-- it helps if you mispell her last name. oops-- at least I'm not the only one

If you made it this far, goodness, you need something else to do- I'm even bored with this post.

Bethany's Silent

We were neighbors before we were toddlers, where you found one you'd find the other. She and I have shared since we were one
From sandbox to bathtub to strawberry ice cream cones.
Everyday we laughed when we played, till that day everything changed
Suddenly Bethany's silent, and nobody's tellin' me why

They say Bethany can't come out today, she's got to stay inside.
I'm not allowed to go in and play, she'll not seek no, she's tryin' to hide.
Used to see a shadow in her bedroom window, lookin' like it wanted out
Suddenly Bethany's silent, and I don't see anyone now

Bethany's been out of school for weeks, they say I'm better off not askin' why
Her momma and daddy are lookin' beat, when they finally make it outside
I've brought them their mail and all her schoolwork and a strawberry ice cream cone,
But suddenly Bethany's silent, her parents just send me on home.

We were neighbors before we were toddlers, where you found one you'd find the other. She and I have shared since we were one.
From sandbox to bathtub to strawberry ice cream cones.
Everyday we laughed and we played, till that day everything changed
Now suddenly Bethany's silent and nobody's tellin' me why.

In One Ear

There's a bench. It's sort of out of the way, and yet in the middle of everything. It's stone. It's been engraved. Well, not the bench, the stone wall behind it, commemorating the bench. I've spent hours at that bench. I couldn't tell you what the engraving says. Might be a famous quote. Yeah, I think that's it. Probably a quote about education or love or life lessons in general. I suppose I didn't pay enough attention because I didn't care what the bench meant to other people, just what it meant to me and what I always hoped it would be.

There's a tree. In the early spring it flowers so beautifully. There's a marker next to the tree. Marble or stone, engraved in remembrance of a life lost to a drunk driving collision on that spot. I don't remember the name, I just remember that it's a few blocks short of a quarter into my run and I'm almost done when I pass it on the way back. Well, I revere it more than that, but sometimes I just forget.

Yeah, that's it. Sometimes I just forget. It's not that I'm insensitive, selfish and vain-- that I'm so wrapped up in marveling at my own majesty in my own little universe, I just happen to forget to pay attention to other people; forget other people exist. Forget other people wake up and fall asleep. Forget other people do things differently than I do. Forget that my way may not always be the correct way. Forget other people are suffered to inhale the toxic exhaust that is my aura. Forget that I'm not running this universe.

The worst, though, the worst is that I forget I can change. I forget that I can be forgiven for being such an ass.

It's alright, It only hurts when I breathe

I used to think I was a good liar. Then I thought I was a horrible liar. Today I have realized that I am the biggest liar I know well, aside from satan. My adeptness at deception is such that my own lies betrayed me! Perhaps we all do this to some degree-- fool ourselves into believing things are different from what they are. Deception, denial, call it what you want. Me, I've been calling it home.

I suppose I somewhat subscribe to the thought that if you ignore something it will go away. Not so much. Perhaps I have been protecting myself for my own good leading to my ultimate demise! Dramatic? Yes, but it's ok, I'm allowed, it is Friday the 13th after all. Instead of making a mountain out of a molehill (see above for example) I have been making a molehill out of a mountain. It's like the Melissa Ethridge lyrics above-- It's alright, it only hurts when I breathe-- which, by the way, happens to be every single second of every single day. Don't worry, I'm not hurt and things will be fine, I just have to face up to things that I've been avoiding before I run myself into the ground and take more responsibility for my life because they won't go away by ignoring them, they'll only get worse.

(and yes, I might still be talking about that root canal--but hey, after 4 months, I'm kind of getting used to eating on just one side of my mouth)

Brush Up Your Bikram
(ten points to the person who gets that reference)

How did working out become synonymous with tension and lounging around with relaxation? Why is it that we can only seem to have either/or, but not both? Over the past year, friends have touted the many benefits of a certain yoga class. So for the past month or so, I've started going a couple times a week to Bikram (or Hot) Yoga classes. Room temperature rises to a sweltering 105 degrees, only falling to a cool 97 if something's broken. The heat warms your muscles, providing a deeper stretch and greater protection from injury. It also can cause fainting, sickness or heat stroke if you're not smart, careful and paying attention to your body's needs.

I enjoy the class. It kicks my butt and will in time hopefully help regulate my sleeping, breathing, eating/digesting and other health concerns. The thing that gets me about this class is how much it centers on relaxation. I'm telling you, when I'm holding some sort of contorted position for a minute that seems like thirty, dripping wet and gasping for air, relaxation is not the first thing that comes to mind. The different teachers have different assets to lend to each class. Saturday, the owner taught and focused on getting back to basics of endurance and form perfection. Last night, our instructor zeroed in on relaxation and breathing, reminding us when it gets hard to concentrate less on the strenuous pose and more on our deep air circulation.

Then she would say the strangest thing, "Relax your face," only to have myself refresh my look into the mirror and see not my foot extended here or there, but my brow scrunched and furrowed, the corners of my mouth taut or pursed. So, I relaxed my face and my lungs loosed, freeing my breath, freeing all my muscles really. Balance came easier, the pose more relaxed and yet deeper, more effective. See, that's just it: you have to relax to get the full benefits from yoga. Contracted muscles won't stretch, they'll tear. Moving concentration from the acting muscles to the breath frees the muscles to ease into a deeper stretch. The pose may be the desired end, but sometimes working directly on the desired end only makes it worse-- you need to find the core.

I've been hearing this a lot lately: that I have to seek the root of the problem in order to solve it. Superficial wounds may heal, but if the deeper lacerations aren't attended to properly they won't mend correctly, causing future difficulties. Those wounds might be physical, more often they're not. Sometimes we don't even know they're there until they've mended improperly-- like finishing a jigsaw puzzle by trimming a piece with a pocket knife. So I wonder- what have I passed over? What's under the surface? What am I trying to whittle down to make the big picture work my way? What about you?

It's true, it really is...
Cooler Near the Lake

In Wisconsin I guess I took for granted all of the accessible lakes. I grew up approximately 22 blocks from Lake Michigan, though I'm often heard bashing our bay's high pollution level being situated right between Milwaukee and Chicago. Seriously, hazing for summer lifeguards involves swimming from a boat to shore and then they are never actually on duty because the pollution levels are too high. They just put up these "No Lifeguard on Duty: High Pollution Swim at Your Own Risk" signs and deal with dumb parents who say asinine things like, "Oh, no, I wouldn't go in there, but it's ok for my kids to swim, right?"

Then there were other lakes. Community lakes rimmed with large cabins, houses and rickety old docks, with anchored rafts floating 15-20 feet away. Public lakes with grassy lawns edging sandy beaches. My sister got her license just before I turned 9. That next summer she would pick me up from intramural drama classes (yes, during the summer I know, I'm a dork) and have to "watch me" for the rest of the day. On days when all the stars aligned (my sister didn't have to go to work, we had enough money to get in, or it was free), we would head straight from class to Silver Lake. Her best friend(M) and my best friend(L) were sisters, so the four of us would cram the car with beach blankets, towels, tanning oils, books, boombox and all the tapes we wanted. Ok, all the tapes *they* wanted, usually a wide variety from Metallica's Master of Puppets to NWA to Andrew Dice Clay. Needless to say, not the most wholesome listening choices for a 9 year old girl.

We would spread out a couple large blankets and my sister and M would strip to their teeny bikini's, oil up and shake their 80's bangs to Sir Mix A Lot's "Buttermilk Biscuits" while scoping out the prospects. Meanwhile, L and I would swim past the buoys, do water tricks until we were blue in the face (and sand-covered and pruned-up everywhere else), beg for ice cream money and then sit back to soak up some rays and marvel at the majesty that were teenagers.

We idolized our sisters, both of whom did some modeling for local places and we were their "mini-me"s. In a way, I think our sisters used us almost as men use babies and puppies. We would call over boys our sisters thought were cute so they didn't have to do it themselves. We tricked people into believing that M and I were sisters and my sister and L were sisters, that is, until they saw the real siblings next to each other and realized the younger could have been the elder's twin, just delayed by 7 years. L and I would inevitably get into some petty fight and our sisters would threaten to beat the living crap out of us or strand us on some roadside between the lake and our homes. We would settle down, only to get upset once again when we had to leave because we knew that once we got in that car, things just wouldn't be the same.

Then we grew up. Life kind of got in the way. Although we still talked and hung out some, L and I sort of drifted apart through junior high and high school. My sister and M stuck it out much longer, but eventually found different people to hang out with on an everyday basis. Every time I go home I think about L and her family, just a quarter of a mile away from my mom's house. On a clear winter day, I could almost see their place through the abandoned field behind my house. I think the last time the four of us were out together was at some bar on my sister's 30th birthday and I left early to chill with my current best friend. Yeah, we still get together from time to time, we still fight and we still make up but it'll never like the times we had at Silver Lake.

The Amazing Race

So, if I use the promotional fares to fly Nashville to Chicago-Midway on March 5-15 and promotional fares from Milwaukee to Denver March 6-11, I can combine two trips into one, actually see my family while I'm in the "north," spend more time with my cousin, have some crazy time with my friends from Madison, have some down time at my mom's, only take one more day vacation AND save at least $150. Yep, there's a fine line between crazy and ingenious.

I understand hate. I have at one time held hate against someone and have been the object of someone else's hate. Hate spins from fear-- fear of the unknown, the known, the supposed. I almost understand love. I love and am loved by my family and friends in ways I get and ways I could never fathom. Love comes from protection, understanding, vulnerability. Vulnerability--not something at which I excel. It's not something I even pretend to embody although it sneaks up on me every so often. I am open. I am opinionated. These qualities do not vulnerability make.

What I don't understand is hurt. Hurt comes when you least expect it. I'm not talking about emotionally-trying, tear-jerking chick flick scenarios or stepping barefoot on a 200 year-old, petrified, rusty nail. I'm talking about making eye contact across the room with someone you used to know. There, even spanned over a hundred faces, something hits you like a blow to the solarplexis; one that catches you off guard and robs you not only of your breath, but for a split second knocks all ability of sense or reason from your very bones so that you can never truly explain the feeling that happens next. Maybe that feeling is vulnerability. Maybe that's why I don't understand hurt, but I'm pretty sure I will whenever I buckle down and finally get that root canal.

M.I.A.

Sorry, I haven't really been jonesin' to write lately. (ha. that just made me think of all my friends with the last name "Jones.") Anywhoo... Sure I've been a little under the weather, but almost everyone I know has, too, which probably doesn't help anyone get better. Nah, it's more like I'm just chillin' and absorbing the world around me. Opening my eyes to detail and compassion I've been deflecting for quite sometime.

Which brings me back to this acronym: M.I.A. Missing In Action. Once a term feared by nearly 50% of the US population, now bandied about with jocular ease. My cousin recently married into the army. Since then, I've become more aware of our "forgotten troops" and the devastation of war--and the seriousness of it all. Last night "Pearl Harbor" aired on one of the 5 channels picked up by the rabbit ears atop my big, expensive television. It started an hour before the Grammys and, never having seen it, I kind of got sucked in and ended up flipping back and forth during commercials.

Cheesy love triangle plot aside, that movie seemed to break my heart, because it shook me awake to the ruthlessness of war. So many people effected. So much unnecessary hurt and pain. So many innocent lives not lost, but taken. And not just on "our side." It made me think of Theoden King's stance in Two Towers and how all he wanted was to protect his people. How he wanted to shelter and shield his realm from the coming onslaught. How destructive hatred rushed to his front door, whether he understood it or not. I don't understand it. Makes me kind of walk around as if someone switched my soles with lead plates.

WANTED: DREAM INTERPRETER
(Amazing Technicolor Coat Optional)

So, I have been having the worst dreams lately-- full of people yelling at me and hating me and then me getting upset and crying or yelling back. Apparently these dreams make me toss and turn more, too. In the middle of the night I'll wake up from one of these dreams to find myself sideways across my bed, head off of the pillow, at least one arm dangling over the side. And yet, as upset as I get in the dreams, they are just as upsetting when I wake up. The thing is: they're so freaking real. They have real people from different times in my life all together in one obscure place. The other night I dreamt that the boy I liked in second grade was picking on me all night at a cheerleading competition. Except, it was now. We were both grown up, I had graduated from college and we were at a pep rally or competition of some sorts for our city's high schools. I was dressed in a cheerleading uniform, but not the high school one, the junior high one-- surprisingly it fit. (I suppose there are some things that aren't too bad about these dreams.) It seems a few of the dreams have involved people from my old cheerleading squads--darn those cheerleaders.

And my dreams will be shaped by odd factual things like this one: oh, I can't go to a new church because Lindsay needs me to help with children's ministry at 10am (which was completely factual-- she had just told me that night). So then I show up where we meet for church and Lindsay's outside with a gigantic vulture picking stuff from her hair. Then the vulture covers her and surrounding people with excrement and flies away. I go inside to clean up and it's a dorm now and I can't find a free bathroom. Once I finally do, I emerge clean to find my childhood best friend, Beth, looking out the window of the lobby. I say something like: what the heck are enormous vultures doing in downtown Nashville anyway? To which she responds: It's because of all the humus. The end.

And there are always levels, stairs and elevators going up and down, up and down. Never on the right level, always running into obstacles. So I wake up totally stressed out.

Can anyone help put a stop to this madness????

Miss February

Hey friends. Shane asked me to be guest writer for today's story from yesterday's two'fer tuesday picture vote, so you can find me here!

I think Mindy Smith has been reading my mind, or perhaps my blog. I swear when I wrapped up this post I had only heard tell of Mindy Smith but never really heard her music, especially not the song Hurricane from her debut album released just one week ago. weird.

chorus
I need a hurricane to empty out this place
Seems it's the only way
To salvage any sense I have left
To move on

Little Dirty Confession

No--not like that. Shame on you. What I mean is this: I hate bathing. No, not the actual act of cleansing or being clean; I hate the thought of being vulnerable to cold, unforgiving tile floors and spastic, inconsiderate water temperatures.

In high school I would wake up insanely early just to take inexorably long showers. Our wonderfully large shower had enough space for me to sit down in the corner, legs fully extended or knees drawn to my chest while hot water rolled down the marble-esque walls and through my clumped bed-headed tresses, dripping from my sleep-swollen eyelashes like spring-ravaged icicles, making merciful saline-free trails down my pillow-creased cheeks and pooling near my knees or feet before finally slipping home through a drain of chrome.

There I would sit for nearly half an hour, if not more, sometimes drifting back into slumber despite the risk of drowning in my own personal little sponge bath-waterfall of sorts. The rhythm of the beading water lulled me into subconscious dreams of tepid summer rains steaming on contact with cracked, sun-scorched blacktop. Had it been late college I may have dreamt of racing that summer rain; rolling thunder stirring in me an almost Pavlovian desire to lace up my sneaks and log in some serious miles--especially at night in Madison with my roommate KD, pushing each other every step up Bascom Hill before spontaneously tacking on another mile or two.

That shower was, and still is, a wonderful retreat where I could be alone and content and subdued. Now, however, it takes a long run or some other sort of sweat-inducing activity for me to set one toe in the frigid, icecap-runoff-spewing, wannabe-porcelain contraption that is my current bathtub/shower from which I scramble to leave before all semblance of hot water. (did I mention it works better without a shower head? So it's like playing with the garden hose every... well, whenever I scrape up the courage to bathe) Luckily for me, decreased bathing is surprisingly healthy for your hair and skin. Luckily for those around me, my love of work outs tends somewhat stabilize my sporadic bathing frequency. The next place I live in, I should make sure there's a steaming-hot-shower-guarantee clause in the agreement.



**Just for the record, my dream house will have bathrooms like Ashley's parents, with heated tile floors and amazingly large, you-can-actually-submerge-your-entire-body-at-once bathtubs with separate showers in order to remedy the horror that is the ice-box-bathing-experience.

Melissa means "Honey Bee"

Ok, so I admit it, you scared the hell out of me and I wasn't ready. What I was ready to do was to find anything and everything wrong with you in order to get out. In the end, all I could come up with was that you just didn't seem to see anything wrong with me. You called when you said you would. You sent me thoughtful packages with inside jokes and hidden memories. You bought a plane ticket to come see me. Your brother asked why I couldn't fly down to see you and meet him, meet the whole family. Your mom sent me a gift in one of your thoughtful packages-- a pewter frame and a nice, little note (I didn't have the heart to tell you the glass had shattered en route). We had only been dating a week and then two and then three and then I started to break out in hives.

I liked you a lot and I admired you more. I knew you were a mature man of God. I knew you were going to be an amazing husband and a loving father-- just not to me and not to my kids, even if I would have wanted that-- which I could have, maybe, in time but not right then, not at that time in my life--maybe not even yet. It's so hard to explain how I know these things, I just do. Kind of how you know the feeling of wet or how the smell of something tastes; you don't know how, you just know. I suppose it could be like how you know when you're in love-- though I might not be the right person to judge that. But I can judge when I'm not, and when I won't be. I just know (the hives might help).

I got a message that you called back the next day. Terrified, I picked up the phone to return the call, bracing myself for the verbal shredding of the century, waiting to hear how much your mom hated me now. But you thanked me. You thanked me for being honest. You didn't second guess me and go through a thousand "why"s. You thanked me for knowing and for following what I knew. I guess deep down you knew, too. That call confirmed my decision. That call saved our friendship-- because we were friends first and are friends still. And I can't express how much that means to me.

You got engaged and married the next year and I am still as sure as ever when I won't fall in love- and sometimes I still break out in hives. Unfortunately, I am still a day late and a dollar short delivering the news to the other "you"s. Not because I am unsure of him, but because I'm still trying to talk myself out of what I just know. I want to give him a chance. I want to believe I'm wrong. I want to be wrong, just once. But I've learned I have to trust in what I know and trust that I'll know when I could fall in love. So I'm waiting. Waiting to just know like I know the smell of a fresh cantaloupe or old cedar-- the way I know my mother's cough or my father's laugh-- the way I know my favorite song from just one chord--the way I know when I'm not in love- and won't be, regardless of the hives.

A Picture in Less than a Thousand Words, though it deserves more

I ran across a picture today. It's a picture of a guy and a gal-- no longer boy and girl, not yet man and woman. I'd like to tell you a story about these two people-- some of it may be true, some it may just flow from my imagination-- I suppose I'll be the only one to really know.

***

Some people you meet in life will never leave you, whether you want them to or not. Some relationships form without the knowledge of either party involved. Some ties made can never be broken, no matter how hard you try. She knows this. She's tried. You can see it in the sadness trapped behind her smile, in the lilt of her eyelashes and the glaze across her entire expression. She's been here before, where he says what she knows deep down and yet cannot seem to accept. She's tried this before and she's tried to walk away.

The last time wasn't so much a walk as a peel across the state line. She sat in the driveway, car running idle for ten minutes that seemed like twenty with every tick and tock. Almost eerily, Jeff Buckley wailed Last Goodbye over the stereo. Slowly, she opened the door and the car lurched backward, threatening to roll down the steep gravel incline. Hastily she threw the parking break into gear, fearful it might impede her getaway. She'd taken her time, though, and written it just right so all she had to do was drop off the note and head out of town.

The termite-tattered stairs groaned even under her fragile frame. Her hand lingered near the doorbell for the last time. A roommate swung the door to on his way out for the day, warm spring air rushing into the dusty foyer. He stopped to look at her, ask her if she needed help, if perhaps she was lost. He didn't know her. Didn't recognize her. Maybe he'd seen her once, or twice. Maybe in pictures, but she hasn't been around for a couple of years and he was never asked to pay much attention. He didn't know the history and impact of message in her grip. She extended the envelope from her pale fingers, the guy's full name hastily scrawled across the front. The roommate took it and set it with the other mail. He'd get it later today.

Or did he? Seven months later, there they are in the exact position she prayed to avoid that spring morning: standing face to face, every inch scaled to a mile. His shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of his certainty in her hope dismayed. In her eyes one more bauble to the ocean between them. Resonating in their bones, Jeff Buckley's Last Goodbye one last time. That is, until the next time.

ever wonder what it's like to feel drunk for several days in a row? take my sinus medication... oy- such a fog.

Red Light, Green Light

So, here's the deal-- when did it become inherent to look into the cars next to you at a stop light? Everyone does it and I'm not really sure why. If you've ever noticed someone looking at you at a stop light, then you do it too. Because how would you know that they're looking at you if you weren't looking at them? It's not like there was a special section in this in driver's ed, it just happens. Once, at that time relatively new to the driving world, I stopped at a light and found some gross guy next to me staring at me and I said "ewww" only to remember that it was summer and our windows were open. But, seriously, I wouldn't have even known he was looking if I wasn't looking to see who was over there. For the most part it's a subconscious action, however, every once in a while, you'll catch someone's eye and realize that your little world inside your car isn't as safe and secluded as you think it is once you close the door.

People wave you to pass them, they thank you for letting them in, you can see them nod-- you can watch them apply lipstick or mascara through your rearview mirror. It makes me think that if we changed our perspectives just a little bit, red cars and black trucks would be replaced with roads of mobile picture boxes into other people's lives. Kind of a scary thought.

What?

You mean I'm supposed to write new stuff on here? Sheesh-- you people are never satisfied. Ok, fine. Stay tuned for the weekend edition.

Decaying Dreams

What's the deal with girls and old, dried out flowers anyway? Ok, ok, I know what you're saying, "Why ask me? You're a girl." Right. Not only am I a girl, I'm a girl who currently has old, dried out bouquets from recent weddings hanging in her hallway, who has innocently slept with rose petals under her pillow in hopes of dreaming of true love, who has kept everything from school yard game dandelions to my first dozen roses from a boy to a pansy plucked from the landscaping of Michael Jordan's front gate on an excursion to help my friend forget, if only for a moment, that his father alit from a bridge into a cloud of his own delusions of failure less than 24 hours earlier. My mom calls me a pack rat--I like to think of myself as sentimental. To me, these dainties represent more than my inability to use a trash receptacle.

They hang daintily from hooks and rods, they lay cradled in bowls and buggies; they appear pressed in the folds of encyclopedias, nestled between Egypt and Ethiopia. In a world of failing minds and decaying dreams they don't merely represent memories-- they are memories: tangible yet untouchable, poignant yet impassive, delicate and yet, enduring.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMILY!!!!!!

(please be my friend again)

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

Daddy did a star come to you?
the one that I told all about you last night
as we sailed through the sky?
Daddy did it beg you come home
cause when you're always on the road momma cries
late at night?
We all know that you're just trying
To give us a better life
But we'd rather be poor as church mice
If it meant havin' you more than part-time.

Daddy did your ears ring last night
when I plinked my very last dime in that well?
Could you tell?
Daddy I'd give all my money
To hear you follow honey with good night
And not good bye.
We all know that you're just trying
To give us a better life
But we'd rather be poor as church mice
If it meant havin' you more than part-time.

'Cause what's the good in a better life
If you never really feel quite whole?
What's the use in the finer things
If a house is never really made your home?
Cause a house is not a home
when it's got a great big lonely hole
Daddy, we'd rather be poor as church mice
If it meant havin' a daddy full-time.

I Try Harder (Second Best) part 2

Last night at youth group, a 15-year-old girl summed up what haunts my every hour, enervates me to a point of artistic paralysis and yet whets my anthropologic appetite all in one simple sentence: "Every thought I've ever had and everything I've ever done was someone else's idea." The simple thought that who I am is an accumulation of every person and idea since the beginning of time. The knowledge that ideas, just as matter, cannot be created nor destroyed both dehydrates and quenches my creative juices.

This thought nearly crushes my will to write. Anything I could write about has already been said. Every idea has already been expounded upon. All attempts to express my ideas or myself result in merely rearranging the dictionary. Why, then, should I even endeavor to produce anything at all when authors from the beginning of time have only been writing from the knowledge left to him or her by their predecessor?

And yet, if we follow the trickle down effect throughout time, we find gullies and culverts along the way. We find deltas, brimming with fertile silt from converging concepts, running over one another, mingling notions, birthing hybrids, stronger and steadier still. We find separate constellations and solar systems of thought, stemming from a wayside brook. We find new inventions, new ways of saying things, new translations and configurations to match our ever-transforming society, our respective cultures- new every day thanks to the constant battle between conformity and deconstruction.

So, why should I bother writing? Because maybe, just maybe, there is one person out there who teeters on the brink of understanding. Maybe, just maybe, stepping into my random rivulet will wash away the remaining groundwork, allowing them the freedom to topple with reckless abandon into discernment otherwise unattainable. Maybe, just maybe, that person is you. More than likely, that person is me.

Pulp Faction

I bought orange juice last night. Not an entire gallon, just a single serving, with medium pulp. Given the option, I would have chosen maximum pulp, but alas there was none to be found. Knowing the possible ensuing consequences, I raised the container to my winter-chapped lips and let the bittersweet texture roll through my mouth, down my awaiting esophagus to my acid-loathing stomach. You see, about a year and a half ago I was diagnosed with acid reflux and have cut back on a lot of the foods I love in order to appease my volcanic digestive system. While I have gone back to coffee, I have ceased my ritual breakfast of apple slices with peanut butter. I have descended to a lower zest salsa and given up a lot of mint and chocolate. I have not had orange juice since I don't know when.

Sitting in my car, I tipped back the last of the nectar, savoring every single drop. Yet, even as I licked a tiny bit of pulp from the rim, memories flooded back of sweeter sips still. I tasted the best juice ever in the Dominican Republic. Whether from the corner store carton or a vat homemade by the village women, my taste buds have never received such delectable succor from heat and thirst. While pondering this, other memories seeped in, not all happy, but all worthwhile.

I remember Allende, whose unused phone number still sits creased in my Bible. And I remember Elena, a sweet little girl of about 5 or 6 I met in a campo (village) set off from the road. We spent two days in the campo, painting a church and playing with the children. I met Elena the first day and promised to play again when we came back. Yet, on day two Elena was nowhere to be found, so another girl took us to find her. Along the way we passed beautiful gullies and trees brimming with ripe limoncias. Once we reached Elena's home, she ran out to great us in shorts and a t-shirt, her pigtails flopping with each bound.

To no avail, I tried to convince her mother that we would just be playing and getting dirty and a dress was not necessary, that Elena would be better off in her shorts and t-shirt. However, before she could come back with us, her mother made her put on a nice dress, to impress us I suppose, though I stood there in my bathing suit, wife beater and gym shorts. On the trek back home the day before, my Adidas sandals had ripped apart and now shone in the light patched with silvery duct tape. While we waited for Elena, I surveyed my duct-tape patched sandals, then sweeping my gaze to the dirt floor, up the clay walls and eventually around the sparsely decorated room.

I remember the thought of Elena returning home that evening, her best dress muddied and soiled saddened me greatly, knowing how fiercely my mother would react had it been me. Looking back, I wonder at the parallel of my own universe. I get ready in the morning, put on a face to impress a makeup-less world and carefully zip up my best dress only to slide through the mud. Every morning consists of getting made up only to return unmade by the end of the day. Yet, what good is life if we don't get our hands dirty? And what good are best dresses if we never wear them, afraid to soil them? Perhaps Elena and her mother had the right idea after all. Makes me want to wear my pearls while washing the floor; you know, if I had pearls--or washed the floor.

I Try Harder (Second Best) part 1

Someone asked me to expound upon my music life. For those of you who know (or don't care) you may stop reading now.

For those of you still with me, here goes. I've been singing for as long as I can remember; no, really, it's true, I have. My parents always encouraged my singing aspirations by enrolling me in voice lessons, sending me to opera camp and supporting my affinity for musicals. However, when it came down to the wire as to what I wanted to be when I grew up, whenever I said, "A musician," my dad said, "That's nice. Now what do you really want to be?" From that time on, I took a more peripheral stance to my musical participation. I still tried out for and performed in musicals and musical groups, but it wasn't life and death, it was extra-curricular.

My sophomore year of college I tried out for a solo in choir and the director of the school's a cappella groups heard me and asked me to try out for the ladies' group, Tangled Up In Blue. Chris made many a concession for me with schedules and practice at first, but eventually my life became school, work and a cappella. We were recording a CD, on which I was blessed to have a solo.

Growing up I was never the lead in the musical and even though I usually had one of the solos in choir, I would have never dreamt of getting the "best" ones--I suppose I was kind of the Avis of the choral scene. Chris, Delee and Chris (our director, producer and engineer) made me feel like I actually had legitimate talent, and I suppose I do. I suppose if I didn't believe that I wouldn't be here in Nashville. After graduation I moved to Nashville, not necessarily to drop everything and become a rock star, but because I still wasn't sure I had what it takes. However, if I did, I figured I should be somewhere where something could actually happen.

At first, moving to Nashville was more disheartening than inspiring. I definitely had the sensation of being big fish from a small pond that's transplanted into an ocean next to a whale. For the past two years I have been inundated with music: good music, bad music, great music, mediocre music. I've seen shows that make me want to go home and write and shows that make me want to sit in silence for hours in hope of retaining that blissful memory as aurally sharp as possible for as long as possible.

It wasn't until I moved here that I realized my true motivation and inspiration for singing. I don't want to sing to make the world happy or to be popular. I want to sing and write in order to share my heart with my friends and family and whoever else happens to eavesdrop and care. I need to know that I will always be a musician, no matter what my occupation. Inversely, I needed to know that no matter what I'm doing musically, I am so much more than a voice (or a face, or a hand). I am not a segment. I am a whole.

I definitely asked for Adam Brody for Christmas and didn't get him.

(or Topher Grace. or Chad Michael Murray.)

basically, an intelligent, sarcastic, cutey geek of my own with whom I may banter and play for the rest of my days. Is that too much to ask for?

Holy Abuse, Batman

Rob's latest post almost made me cry. Seriously. I tend to refer to my attempts to play guitar as "abusing my guitar," but I still have a hard time entrusting it to the hands of others. I have flown with my guitar a few times and have always carried it on, detuning some to avoid snapping strings or warping the neck. On the way to Sacramento last spring, the flight attendant actually asked me if we could play it a little in flight. That was kind of fun, he had some flight attendant parody songs that he played for the entire plane. Crazy guy.

I actually feel bad for my guitar, because it deserves to be played better. It's exactly the one I wanted--it sounds like a honey waterfall. Gah-- gorgeous. I've thought about taking guitar lessons more than several times. However, living in Nashville it's a kind of daunting thought because everyone assumes everyone is dying for a record deal-- and I'm not. I want to do my own thing. I don't think I could handle a dictating mainstream record label controlling my life. I wouldn't mind, however, a supportive indie label guiding me along... Anyway, my friend Andy, who produced my CD project also played guitar for it, since what I know I've taught myself, and that's not much.

I have never claimed to be a guitar player. I am a singer who aspires to play guitar more and "abuse" it less. I aspire to play my own music, dangit! So, if you don't see me playing out (which you won't really) this is why: because I want to play my own music. I want to be able to get up on stage with just Barley and Me. (Barley is my guitar and my music will be registered under "Barley and Me Music"). So, I guess I better get cracking at that. Until then, I'll be able to play out when my friends will so graciously play with me.

Guilty as charged (and I'm not talking ions)

Some of my (and by response your) favorite posts are really just notes, stories written to myself. Recording memories in an attempt to harvest them, bundle them, savor them before they slip beyond recall. Yet, of late I have most definitely been using this blog as less of a collecting well for the outpouring of an already existent stream of consciousness and more of a back up sump pump in a desert, vainly attempting to suck any remaining moisture from an already ravaged land.

Yeah. That's it. All this to say: I'm going back to listening to Death Cab for Cutie right now (well, once I'm back at my own desk).

Sitting at home on Saturday night, I reveled in the splendor of solitude, the rapture of peace and quiet. In the dark, on my "porch" loveseat I lay for hours, some awake, some asleep. One small lamp at the opposite corner of the room provided the only light. The day had been somewhat hectic, somewhat emotionally draining, ever so much clarifying and freeing.

There was a wedding. Two people whose relationship I have long respected had finally come to a point where they knew and would declare to the world that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives serving each other. Two people fully aware that their relationship with each other exists as but a shadow, a signpost, of their union with Christ. Two people dependent on each other, yet even more so dependent on Christ, knowing that while they will never be perfect in this world, HE was, is and always will be perfection. And He is with us and will not forsake us, though we forsake each other daily.

Half laying, half dangling over my loveseat, the day washed over me. The ideas of love as servitude, love incomplete in this world, love insatiable rolled like waves one after another, rocking me in silence, rocking me awake, rocking me to sleep. These concepts filled me with a sense of disturbed tranquility, fettered freedom. Throughout the stillness rang a conclusion dissonant yet harmonious. Though called to solitude for a time, alone we never may be.

New Beginnings

I may walk ahead or fall behind
I'm inclined to warn you
If I know me like I know me then I know there will be days
When I'll want to run away
Just ask me to stay

I'm not sure, how this works or how to play by the rules
I'm usually breaking them or making them up as I go
But I promise to be honest (to a fault) if you'll please
Be patient with me

We both know I'm indecisive, contradictory at best
This isn't my cup of tea
I'd rather paint my walls or fold my laundry
Than be available to anybody

I'm not sure, how this works or how to play by the rules
I'm usually breaking them or making them up as I go
But I promise to be honest (to a fault) if you'll please
Be patient with me

Slow the pace, slow the pace, no use making this a race
No use wasting your breath, no use getting irate
In gridlock traffic

This will take time
This will take time
This will take time
Know this if you want to be mine
Be patient with me

AOLternates

I'm thinking of making a "101 Uses for an AOL CD" list.
So far I have:

Door Stop (while still in mailing tin)

Furniture Prop

Window Scraper

Coaster

Frisbee

Emergency Mirror

Highway Distress Signal (light reflection)

Makeshift Screwdriver (regular of course)

Spatula

Prying Device

Fatty Bling Necklace Medallion (hopefully for Halloween)

Other ideas?

What I Did On My Sin-Filled Vacation

Yoomi Sin, that is. Yoomi (pronounced: you-me) and I are from the same hometown. As a matter of fact, we live about a three minute drive from each other. In High School we had mutual friends but were more of acquaintances with each other. Even if we hadn't had mutual friends in high school, I couldn't have missed Yoomi. After all, it's really hard to miss a 5'9", exuberant, eccentric (read: loud and crazy) Korean girl bopping through halls resembling cotton fields. All in all, I suppose we've only become good friends in the past <> six or seven years.

The turning point of our friendship began when, my junior year, she transferred to UW Madison. Transferring in as a sophomore, dorm space was hardly an option, so Yoomi ended up in a snooty private dorm (usually housed with athletes and what we at the UW labeled "coasties"--snobby, trendy east coast chicks). Being from the same hometown and having mutual friends really makes you want to help a girl out, especially on a campus of 40,000 undergrads. So, Yooms and I began to hang out. She got involved in Campus Crusade with me and (with her sparkling personality) made friends right away.

Throughout the years I have seen Yoomi mature and grow in ways that I would have never imagined, and I would hope the experience has been mutual. She is one of the most beautiful people I know. Yes, she is physically beautiful, but I mean as a whole person. Yoomi has taught me so much about loving yourself for who you are and how God has made you-- not necessarily with words, but just seeing her live. She is confident and radiant, even when she completely embarrasses herself. Yoomi celebrates life. I appreciate that. She may not know it, but I have learned so much more from her than how to say "come here stupid" in Korean.

There is a reason why Yoomi Sin is one of the few friends I still call and look forward to seeing when back at my hometown. And there is a reason why I will stay in touch with Yoomi for a long time.

A Whiff of the Past

While celebrating Christmas at my aunt and uncle's newly built (with their own hands) house, I ventured into their still-to-be finished basement. As I traveled down the wooden stairs, an urge came over me to sneak and creep, as though only things meant to go unseen lay ahead. Things not yet ready for their picturesque, Currier and Ives home.

Softly, quietly I swept down half panel/half plaster lined stairwell. Memories flooded back to my aunt and uncle's previous houses where my cousin and I would retreat to the basement, at first to play with our Cabbage Patch Kids or Castle GraySkull, later to discuss how playing She-Ra was so much easier than trying to be a real life She-Ra. I thought about the summer before ninth grade, sitting in the basement playing the Ouija board with my cousin's clique, holding hands with Scotty Schultz when they'd turn out the lights.

Sleepovers, stories, secrets came back to me as I descended into the unfinished unknown. Then I got to the bottom and turned to the right, where the rec room would have been and the pictures melted into concrete and cardboard. The old oven where my uncle roasted our turkey sat now cold against the back wall. To the right of it, my uncle's tool bench ran along an entire side of the basement, tools hung neatly in their places on the wall. Now I turned full-circle toward the front of the room, back in the direction of the staircase, and there it shone in the pale light filtering down the stairwell.

Standing before me, nay, shining before me in chrome and glass and dark paneled wood of its own, glistened not a momentum of my past here, in Milwaukee, but in my own home. I heaved open the glass top and the smell of vinyl swept over me, the smell of 45s, the smell of The Beach Boys and The Drifters mixed with Tiffany and Lita Ford, the smell of huge Father's Day picnics, of play sock hops at sleepovers of my own; the smell of the past. This was our jukebox. Mine, my dad's, my mom's, my sister's. It used to sit just to the right of where I now type, a space now inhabited by an extra desk acting as a book stand for Williamsburg: Before and After and The Pictorial History of the Civil War. Today it lies in a cement tomb with its grave marker touting the name "Paul Anka."

Advantages Of Cold Weather

Hot Chocolate

Fuzzy Sweaters

Wispy White Snowfalls

Fluffy Earmuffs And Scarfs

The Smell And Warmth Of Crackling Fireplaces

The Smell And Warmth Of That Special Someone Snuggling In Front Of The Crackling Fireplace

The Battery Freezing In My Mom's Motion-activated Reindeer Wreath On The Garage Door So It Can't Annoy Us Anymore With Electronic Christmas Carols

I wish everyday was 3 days before Christmas

my nephew is being so well behaved!!!!

Trilogy Schmilogy

"Trilogy Tuesday" was actually a rather inappropriate name for the 12-hour Lord of the Rings marathon. In truth, to call the LOTR a trilogy in print or film misrepresents the entire work! Neither did Tolkien write a trilogy nor Peter Jackson film a trilogy. Tolkien's original work had to be divided into sections for the simple fact that no printer could afford to produce so large a publication. Peter Jackson's original plan was to condense the work into one picture, when New Line Cinemas said, to his disbelieve and delight, this really needs to be three separate films.

Therefore, people are met with a rather unsatisfactory answer when they ask me how ROTK compared to the other installments and which was the best. It's kind of like asking, "what part of the story do you like best," because in the minds of Tolkien, Jackson and myself, it is all one story. They are one entity, unable to survive on their own. ROTK is the resolution of the story. This is not a trilogy-- it is one work, segmented over time for production purposes.

Spending the day watching all three segments was truly amazing. There's something to be said for the fluidity of watching them all together. The LOTR screen writers have been noted as saying they like to think that events from the book not appearing in the films should be seen as occurring off-screen, not left out entirely. I can understand this, being that the unextended ROTK was already 3.5 hours. So, how was the movie? It was triumphant. It was resolute. It will be better when I see it in the coming weeks and don't have idiots clapping at every single scene. Seriously people, there are going to be triumphant moments-- a lot of triumphant moments!!! Some are rather kick-butt and hoot-n-holler worthy-- but beware, clapping interferes with pertinent dialogue!!

Ok, rant over. The theatre was gracious in allowing us to bring in outside food as well as providing some free food for us. In the end we all got cels from each of the movies provided by New Line Cinemas. Watching all three segments as the intended single entity is a highly satisfying (albeit long) process-- I can't wait to do it in the comfort of my home when the extended ROTK comes out.

What She Would Like To Do

...is write about Return of the King. No spoilers, just about the overall Trilogy Tuesday experience.

What is on her heart, however, is a deep, dark, gritty truth and awe that only one King can claim.

The past week or so, I have been reviewing the past year of my life and reveling in the wonder and the pain it has revealed. A year wrought with mind-warping struggles, self-destructive behaviors and blessed tears of redemption-- over and over and over again.

A year of journal entries such as these:

It's amazing how life passes by and history repeats itself. Lessons learned are relearned, this time faster, this time much more painfully slower than ever.

It seems I cannot love you anymore, and yet as hard as I try, I am unable to love you any less. Fly. Be released and free me from your cage.

Oh were I like a feathered dove, and innocence had wings. I’d fly and make a long remove from all these restless things!

Tossing and turning. Round about everything. Fly. Fly. Free me with your wings. Soar across the stars as I slumber through the deepest seas. Set me free. Free me. Set me free.

I cried throughout most of worship, and not tears and sobs of lament at my guilt, but joy and conviction commingled streaming down my cheeks into a smile of one who is ever a sinner and a saint, waiting for the day when I will be made completely and wholly perfect in Christ and may awaken fully to His Glory, while crumpled in His grip, unable to bear even the weight of my own shoulders much less the burden I have so stubbornly struggled to wear. I look to His promises, look to His Word, look to His cross, He is ever there. I don't know if that made sense, but that is my heart-- and so scared am I to share with anyone what might be inside, that I have forgotten to love and to be loved as His bride.

It's days like these my eyes barely open, my face is swollen and soiled. Stained by choices poorly taken, worn by trials, severely shaken. Its days like these when I could fly away home. Run away home, lose my way and end up in a home I created.

And if I try hard enough I could lose myself, start all over as someone else. Someone less tortured, someone less tried, someone less prodded and singed in the fire. Someone less than who you meant me to be. You press me to be so much more. Would you still want me if I were someone less?

Would you love me less?
In an hour this late, have I really the option to choose another way? In an hour this dark could there be any rays? In an hour this silent is there anything left to say? With scrapping hands and fingers so raw, I claw to climb out of this mess myself, to uphold myself, to do anything myself but let you make me more myself. All my life I've settled for less. But you want to make me more.

The path of righteousness is like the first gleam of dawn, shining ever brighter till the full light of day. ~Proverbs 4:18

After all of this grey weather we've had, this verse strikes a particular chord with me. Light is one of those things we take for granted. Thanks to electricity, we have access to light at the tip of our fingers. Even at night we have light in the form of flashlights, street lamps and headlights.

But there is a distinct difference between the hum and glow of fluorescent lights and the brilliant warmth of the dazzling sun.

So too is there a vast difference between the empty promises of false idols and the awesome wonder of the Heavenly Son. While one is like silver plate on a nickel base, the other is pure gold with a diamond sheen: much like the band the Lover has placed on the hand of His beloved, His body, His bride. And yet, even that ring, brilliant and symbolic as it may be, is nothing compared to the radiant glory beaming from the face of the Lover as He watches His beloved walk down the aisle. And she too stares not at the congregation surrounding her, but at her goal, the One who will have her and hold her eternally; her true love.

Too often I have been caught surveying the faces of the congregation, untrue to the One standing at the end of the aisle, too caught up in my own beauty at the moment, not realizing that any beauty I may have comes not from me, but from being loved by one True Lover.

A year ago today I wrote these words:

I never meant for you to see the anger, the cold, black malice I hide. But sometimes it just won't abide. Tears always follow fits, both yours and mine. You know I never meant to make you cry.

But I'm so angry that I want to cry all the time. And I don't know where the person I was has gone to, but the me who took her place seems like a shadow of the shadow of the shadow of her. And oh how she used to shine. But the lights now have faded and the winter's set in. And the me that's left can't escape the grey and the clouds that hide the sun and bring no snow to purify this dingy ground, and wash the world in white. And oh how the crystals would shine when their makers let them loose and moved on eastward to release the sun for at least one bright day. And brighter than a covered day is a living night clear and cold. When the shimmering slopes and icicles mirror brave Orion's bow.

And Today I write this:

I am blessed and at peace. I am whole because I am with You and You are ever with me. You have freed me from "safe" love because, by allowing me to be able to be hurt and broken, you have allowed me to love all the more greatly, and be all the more greatly loved. Although I know that I will never truly be healed until that day You call me home; and although I may long for that day with the groaning of all creation, I no longer wish for the end of today. For today I have with You as well as yesterday and tomorrow. I now know that I need not wait for the veil of night to set on my days in this world to see with Your light. For I have seen darkness and I have felt the icy chill of emptiness, but no cavernous waste exists beyond Your ability to sate.

Randomness

I want to make a really swanky eau de parfum and call it "7th Grade Shower"

Happy Anniversary Mr. and Mrs. Shane Blake!!!

Today also marks the Anniversaries of the Boston Tea Party, the Battle of Nashville and the Blizzard of 1978, in which I was born.

At the anniversary of the actual time of my birth (8:20pm), I will more than likely be sidled up to the Big Screen with a hot cup of Hornburg whoopass. Which, obviously, deserves its own entry-- more to come

For anyone who may have emailed my hotmail account in the past couple of weeks, I'm not a jerk head and I do want to respond, hotmail just won't let me send anything out. Sorry!

Putting the "Pur" in my "Purpose"
(wait, I don't think that came out right...)

"He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God." ~Agamemnon, Aeschylus

On April 4, 1968, Robert F. Kennedy stood in an urban Indiana ghetto, amid 2500 blacks, including some 200 black militants and announced the assassination of the great Martin Luther King, Jr. In his ensuing extemporaneous eulogy, Kennedy cited his favorite poet Aeschylus. He referenced his own personal, familial loss to the same hatred four and a half years earlier. In a word, Kennedy stepped into the line of fire and sought to explain that, while hatred may have a face, it has no determinant of race or creed.

Kennedy stood in the face of a potential riot and plead, "What we need in the United States is not division; what we need in the United States is not hatred; what we need in the United States is not violence and lawlessness, but is love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, feeling of justice towards those who still suffer within our country, whether they be white or whether they be black. ... Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago: to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world."

My purpose, ladies and gentlemen? To bring understanding, depth and perspective to a world skewed by hatred, violence and the pigeon-holed, biased and shackled view of safe love.

Microphone Check 1, 2, 1, 2

Actually, I usually hate mic checks. I don't mind running songs, but getting my individual volume without anything else kind of weirds me. In the end I ramble off some made up story about the light fixtures in the room or what happened on the way to the forum...

Any way, when I was recording Andy would say, "ok, sing into the mic-- real singing." A justified addition for a few of reasons. A) Even though I've known Andy and have been good friends with his wife for over two years, he never heard me sing "for real" until this past February. 2) Andy had never heard me sing for real BECAUSE his wife and I always just joke around singing dumb stuff and making up songs as jokes. Finally) BECAUSE Andy's a really good musician and we're in Music City, surrounded by all sorts of great musicians and not so great musicians, therefore it's just more fun to joke around since people would think us pompous if we walked around singing for real.

Needless to say, I ended up singing for real and I've heard the mixes today for the first time. Ali O asked me what I thought of the songs and I told her I couldn't say anything just yet, basically because I am my worst critic (as are most people their own worst critics). For lunch I went home and made my roommie (who I used to sing with in college) listen to the songs and tell me what she thought.

Basing my opinions purely on my vocal tracks (because the rest of the musicianship is amazing), I said something like, "I'm trying to think if I like this song at all." To which my roommate replied, "Really? I was thinking this was good enough to be on the radio!" To which half of me thought, "Really?!?!" and the other half thought, "Is it *that* bad that it sounds like radio crap?!?!" Totally crazy.

I think I have the order all worked out. Now to just figure out why I can't get a hold of my friend doing the graphic art! Looks like release will be after Christmas. I'll see what I can do about getting a couple songs online, though.

For now, I'll just go back to listening to my Billboard Top Hits: 1987 CD and then maybe I'll see about renting "Mannequin" on the way home...

I have to have a purpose by Monday. Why am I suddenly reminded of The Jerk?

On another note: I am, at this time, listening to (quite possibly) the final mix of my CD. More thoughts on that later.

Dumb Dumb Dumb

For some reason it has taken me all day to be able to sign in to Blogger. Well, at least I now know it doesn't have anything to do with our work firewall.

So, speaking of dumb-- I saw ELF last night and it was not dumb at all. Actually, there were about six or seven of us in the theater and I felt more than free to laugh heartily. My roommate, on the other hand, felt free to sing along with the Christmas Carols. Weirdo.

Another occurrence from last night: I have said for quite sometime that olive skin coloring is great for summer months and tans, but bad for winter. Since I have olive skin coloring, my complexion does not turn white in the winter, but rather-- green. No one has ever believed me until last night when, under the never-flattering fluorescent lights of the theater restroom, my roommate final realized and admitted that I matched her lime green sweater. Boo. Looks like Kermit and I are kin after all.

It ain't easy being green.

shhhrifft

I ripped up some pictures this morning. That's about the sound they made. I rip junk mail apart. I rip bills apart. I rip old receipts apart. I don't usually rip pictures. As a matter of fact, I don't usually get rid of pictures in general. Most of my frames have one or two older pictures behind the showcased one. I even have one picture of my cousin and I that I think is horrendous, but instead of getting rid of it, I just have it turned backward in the family album flip frame. It may not look nice, but it's still us-- and sometimes we just don't look all that great.

Even on the random occasion that I do dispose of a snapshot, I usually just throw it away in one piece. I never really thought about this until I ripped the first picture this morning. I heard the sound it made, saw the ragged fibers along the newly made edge and it gave me a sense of power-- of freedom from this silly little reminder of a silly little event. I even ripped a couple pictures right along the silhouettes of the people inside. I almost kept a ripped fragment of myself but threw it away. I did, however, keep a ripped fragment of another friend. I may throw it away eventually, just to forget the moment all together. I may not.

It's funny how sometimes the things we want to hold on to we have to pin down like Peter Pan's Shadow and yet, the things we want to walk away from the most cling closer to us than a heavy fog.

I Think We're Alone Now

I don't know why, but at this moment I finally feel free to talk about what's been bothering me-- openly, honestly, unencrypted (for the most part). So I'm going to leap out with reckless abandonment-- though I can't promise it will stay up forever and I can't promise it will be fully comprehensible. Here we go:

"I cannot change the heart of anyone in the world." I'll admit that, for some reason, I was fading out of church this morning, but I did hear that line from my pastor. Hmm. I cannot change the heart of anyone in the world. I. Cannot. Change. Hearts. I cannot change you. I cannot woo you with word, song or bat of an eye. God knows I've tried. And God knows that I've failed, and always will.

You see, you love people; I love you. You pour your heart into others, myself included. You show genuine interest in the lives of others, myself included. You make people feel special, myself included. Yet I have ignored your love of people, narrowing the focus only to myself. I have fought adamantly against being placed on a pedestal and yet, I have denied you your humanity and exiled you to that windy, merciless loft. I have been jealous of your love for others. Like Jonah, I would prefer the "undeserving" to feel your contempt than your grace and love. Like Jonah, I have failed to see my place in that crowd. Perhaps I ought to say: you love people; I love me.

Please know that when I am angry, I am not angry at you, but at myself. When I cry, it is not because of you, but because of me. You have always been honest and I have always known where I stand. That is why I cry-- because the truth you speak and the lies I hear wage war within me. We love and yet, are not "in love." I have said, "If you cannot be hurt, than you cannot be loved." This is the root of my suffering. I am the root. "I cannot change the heart of anyone in the world." Sadly, this includes me.

A certain object continually rattles through the confinement of my deepest thoughts. An object as translucent as over-used motor oil and as simple as Tolstoy. From afar it takes the shape of a ball. When examined more closely, however, one sees that it does not have one satin-smooth skin, but 2,360,458 tiny faces connected by the slightest angles, each similarly differentiated.

This orb of a concern has been bouncing through my mind like Pong on crack; too rapid for me to analyze, too volatile for me to command. I'm just waiting for one of the paddles to miss, allowing this fast-flying affixiation to flail off screen. Game over.

Far Away Home

Looking over the context and inspiration for each of my songs I have come to a realization: I don't really write about me. Well, I do, but I don't, not about the really personal things. The closest I've come is writing a song about my aunt's death from cancer this spring, and it basically states that I have no words for the situation.

I can't really read my mom's take on the song about my aunt (my dad's sister). Part of me thinks that she's slightly saddened by the fact that I wrote a song about my aunt, but not about her. This gets into the whole topic of not being able to write the *really* hard stuff. How on earth could I write about my mom's struggles if I can hardly put into words my aunt from California's struggles? I think it might just kill me to write about something that close to home. I need a little bit of distance. Like the song I was finally able to write about my parents' divorce-- six years later (that actually shares the same title as this post). And how the only boys I've ever actually written songs for/about were an inconsequential friend and an old boyfriend who is now married (which was also semi-inspired by a friend's relationship at the time).

It's not that I haven't tried. I've tried writing about the struggles and strength both my mother and my sister have gone through-- are still going through-- and the admiration for them-- an extent I can never seem express appropriately or enough. I've also tried to write songs about other people I love, the men I've loved-- I love.

I've sat with my journal the last few nights trying to put something down on paper-- anything, so I can remember, so I can extract it from my head, so I can blot it from my heart, so I can remove myself from it and move on. Yet, it's too soon-- too close. I need time. Still, I think about it every night and am waiting for that perfect moment when I'm close enough to still remember the chills and far enough removed to be objective. It's coming. It's coming. Even if it has to be relegated to the confines of my journal ramblings-- for now.

Of Note

Although I've been going to the YMCA for almost two years, it struck me as funny last night to see the handicapped parking spots. Then I remembered the man who uses one treadmill and places his oxygen tank on the one next to it. Then again, I do go to a Y with valet parking.